


Who Can Retell (the things that befell us)

by Ardatli



Series: Jewish Holidays (with Billy and Teddy) [1]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: But it ends on a high note, Christmas, Discussion of (canon) minor character death, Flangst?, Fluff and Angst, Hanukkah, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardatli/pseuds/Ardatli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, one Christmas that Billy and Teddy didn’t spend together, and five that they did.</p><p>EDITED: Now with AWESOME FANART by <a href="http://yafgcrich.tumblr.com">yafgcrich</a>!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Can Retell (the things that befell us)

**Author's Note:**

> With gratitude and eternal devotion to my beta, moonbrightnites. 
> 
> First section has a mild spoiler for _Civil War_ , whole thing is a spoiler for _Family Matters_.
> 
> You can find me at ardatli.tumblr.com for random blathering.

**+1.**

The first Christmas after Ted Altman’s mother died, he was on the run and Billy was in custody.

 

 _\- Burned. She didn’t just die, she was burned alive. And he’d planned to tell her so many things, when they had time. Maybe at Christmas, when school was out and she had time off work. Then they could sit down at the kitchen table, and put music on the stereo and too much sugar in their coffees and just_ talk _like they used to –_

There was no chance to miss her, to miss their routines, her voice, her perfume when they hugged.

There wasn’t time to hurt, not any more deeply than the hollow, desperate ache that had been a fixture in his gut for months.

There was only time for planning and recon and fighting and _Billy_. For bringing him home.

 

_\- He liked to think that she knew about Billy and him, about how happy Teddy had been for the last year. In the few moments he stole for himself, in the middle of what people were starting to call a civil war, Teddy liked to talk. He liked to imagine that she was listening.-_

 

So if he avoided thinking about holidays, and if the smells of cinnamon and pine made his eyes burn and water, then he had his reasons.

He was perversely grateful when he looked at the calendar and he realized that Christmas had passed two days ago. It had been lost in the rush and the pounding of his heart and the next thing on the list to be done.

He lost her. He wasn’t going to lose Billy too.

 

**1.**

The second year after Teddy’s mom died, he and Tommy were living with the Kaplans.

\--

Billy trudged through the slush, his coat collar turned up around his ears and his shoulders rolled in. The grocery bag was pulling down on his wrist and banging arhythmically against his knee. He was outside, which everyone kept telling him was a good start. He supposed that was true.

Stepping aside to dodge a couple loaded down with shopping bags, one foot landed directly in a cold puddle that promptly bypassed his boot to make swift and furious love to his sock. Billy groaned. Shot a hate-filled look at the puddle, the shoppers, the tinsel-plastered windows of every last store. Then, just for good measure, he directed a general rush of hate and loathing towards the radio DJs who lost their collective minds before Thanksgiving, the stores that filled their shelves with tacky red and green crap before Hallowe’en, and the assholes who seemed to think that ‘I have a little dreydel’ was either the only Hanukkah song in existence, or some misguided cultural equivalent of Handel’s Messiah.

And it’s not as if ‘Chrismukah’ was even a _thing._

He kind of hated December in general.

 

_\- If you have nothing nice to say, William Kaplan-_

He sighed, kicked a clump of slush and dirt off the bottom of his boot and looked around for inspiration. To pacify the internal voice of Bubbe Rose, if nothing else.

_Fine._

The lights were pretty, more so now in the growing darkness of early evening, and especially when he squinted. Then the wreaths and candy cane shapes all filled and blurred, blended into a blinking, glowing blanket of stars.

His neighbourhood was one of the darker ones, fewer buildings lit up with brilliant splashes of red and white and green. There was a tree in the lobby, but it wasn’t like the Kaplans – or the Moskowitzes a few doors down, or the Levines on the other side – were ever going to string icicle lights off the balconies.

He’d wondered if maybe, this year, what with Teddy and all-

 

_-but his dad had made a careful offer to go and get some of Teddy’s boxes out of storage, if there were any decorations there that Teddy wanted to put up._

_Teddy had recoiled, then very politely said ‘no, thank you.’ Billy’s dad had said nothing, just nodded and laid a hand on Teddy’s shoulder as he’d left the room._

_‘Are you sure?’ Billy had asked quietly, knowing that he was pushing. He was pushing somewhere where he shouldn’t, because he knew his dad, and how difficult the offer would have been for him to make. And to accomplish what? Hang a stocking by a non-existent chimney, with the chanukiah burning in the window on the other side of the room, to emphasize again how different things were now?_

_‘Yeah,’ Teddy had answered, and ‘it’s enough that they let me stay here’ and ‘after everything-‘ and then he’d stopped talking._

_Tommy had refused to offer an opinion about it one way or the other, except to suggest that all holidays were nothing more than commercialized bullshit. And then he’d gone to Kate’s.-_

 Billy leaned his head against the cool glass of the elevator’s mirrored wall until it slowed, stopped. The door opened.

 

 _-“So what do you guys_ do _on Christmas?” Teddy had asked him once, right at the beginning of everything, the two of them sprawled easily across Billy’s bed one Wednesday afternoon. Teddy had closed the new Captain America comic he’d been reading and carefully slid it back into the polybag. “It’s not like much is open.”_

_Billy had been watching Teddy’s hands, those thick, strong fingers and broad palms, imagining (just for a second, and not in a creeper kind of way), what they would feel like on his hips, sliding over his stomach, his-_

_“Uh.” Billy said, then struggled to find words. Words were good._

_“Some stuff’s still open. We go out, usually. We do the big family dinner thing at Passover. Christmas day is for going to a movie, and then to Canton Gardens for dinner. It’s cool because there aren’t any lines. It’s kind of a thing. What about you?” he asked, not because he was all that into Christmas stories, but because everything about Teddy was fascinating. And the less Billy talked, the less likely he was to say something dumb._

_Teddy had smiled, a little shyly, and told him about holidays with his mom, and her thing about Christmas in general, and mulled cider, and the tree. And Teddy had brushed sunlit gold strands back from his eyes, and talked with his hands, and Billy watched his lips move and let the sound wash over him and just kept on falling in love.-_

The apartment was dark, and Billy left the hall light off as he kicked off his boots and hung up his coat. Teddy was where Billy had left him, curled up in a ball on the couch, a blanket pulled over his legs. He was staring blankly at the TV, the station tuned to the Yule Log, the fake televised fire burning red and gold. Teddy looked up slowly when Billy came in to the room, blinking as though he’d been asleep.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Billy looked around. “They’re already gone?”

“Yeah. Your mom said they’d be back around nine.” Teddy glanced up, then recited, “Also, not to turn the music up too loud, and remember that they might choose to come home early.” He grinned at that, but his smile was a pale shadow of its usual self, drawn and tired.

Billy really hated December.

“I got everything,” he replied. He handed over the shopping bag, sliding in under the blanket as Teddy lifted it up for him. Teddy was warm and solid against Billy’s side and Billy curled up against him, nestled his head into the crook of Teddy’s shoulder. A sudden brisk wind whipped their hair around, a blur of motion pulling the plastic bag out of Teddy’s hand. Tommy dropped down onto Teddy’s other side and sprawled against the arm of the couch with the bag of Doritos already open before Billy could fully register what had happened.

“Cool Ranch and eggnog?” Tommy asked, letting Teddy shove at him until his legs were off Teddy’s knees and Tommy was sitting more or less on his end of the couch. “That’s gross, even for you two losers.” He grinned wide, though, and there was no sting in the words.

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Teddy replied calmly, while Billy rolled his eyes. Tommy looked speculatively at the carton of eggnog still in the bag, but Teddy grabbed it, twisted the cap open and drank straight from the container.

“Nasty,” Tommy declared, waving it off when Teddy pretended to offer him the carton, cramming a handful of chips into his mouth instead. “Last thing I need is alien spit in my mouth.” Billy took it instead and swigged from the spout, the first taste an immediate sweet-cream-rich sensory overload.

Tommy gagged.

“I’m used to his cooties,” Billy replied, and drank again. Teddy’s shoulders had unknotted and the tension lines had faded from his brow. He reclaimed the carton from Billy and lunged for the bag of chips. Tommy managed to keep a hold on the bag, though some of the chips went flying, and – hell, call it a third Hanukkah miracle; the eggnog didn’t end up getting dumped on the couch, or the carpet.

By the time the rest of the family returned, Billy’s little brothers’ squabbling audible all the way down from the elevators, the Yule log had been replaced on-screen by Gremlins-

 

 _\- It is_ so _a Christmas movie, Tommy had insisted. -_

Teddy was flanked by the twins, Billy under the blanket with him, pressed limb to limb.

 

 _\- ‘Hands where I can see them, dudes. I’m not hanging out with you if you’re making out under there’_ - 

 

Tommy was still sprawled, loose-limbed and easy, on the other side. It wasn’t exactly a postcard holiday picture; the smiles were still band-aids over wounds that were taking too long to heal. But the looks of relief, and hell, even _joy_ that Billy’s parents had when they walked in, when Billy realized his parents had heard them laughing –

It was enough.

 

**2.**

The third year, Billy and Teddy were supposed to be back at Billy’s parents’ place for the holiday. But that depended entirely on them surviving their first college term.

\--

There was a wreath on their dorm room door. Teddy stared at it.

The wreath, rudely, refused to explain itself.

It hadn’t been there when he’d left Billy in bed that morning to trudge across campus to his morning exam. Which meant that some time in the past four hours, someone had kidnapped his boyfriend, and replaced him with a brainwashed clone.

Weirder things had actually happened.

Teddy frowned, shook his head. He opened the door.

The flashing lights weren’t the right colours for Billy’s magic, oranges and purples and greens garish and pulsing in a rhythm just familiar enough to be crazy-making. Up until now, the dorm room had been generic cream and brown standard-issue. A few posters on the walls and their shared scattered mess formed blocks of colour that made it feel less industrial.

Less like a prison cell.

Now there was nothing _but_ colour. Christmas had vomited all over the room, every inch of the space covered in shiny, glittering, white-fur-trimmed crap. Billy sat in the epicentre - where else? - ribbon hanging from his mouth and wrapping paper heaped in crumpled mounds around him. He scrambled to his feet, raked a hand through his tumbled bed-head. “Shit! You’re done already?”

It wasn’t the kind of warm welcome that Teddy was used to. Billy’s shoulders were up and he chewed at his bottom lip, scrubbed his hands down the front of his jeans.

“Billy-“ Teddy stepped inside, set his bag down, let the door swing closed behind him to shut them both into the North Pole: Satellite Office. Teddy frowned. “You _hate_ Christmas.”

“I don’t hate Christmas,” Billy replied quickly, defensive and tight. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s just- not my thing. But it’s your thing. Which makes it an us-thing, and the thing about things is-“ he trailed off, his lips quirking up in a careful smile. “And now the word ‘thing’ has lost all meaning.”

Billy lost the smile when Teddy didn’t respond, and he took a step closer. The hesitation was as wrong on Billy as the plastic stacking Santas were on their bookshelf, or the flying reindeer squad taped over the Zelda poster.

“Where did you get all this _stuff_?”

This _wasn’t_ Teddy’s thing, not like this, any more than going to church had been. (And thank god Billy didn’t seem to have discovered novelty nativities, unless the bathroom was decorated too.)

 

_- The box of ornaments was in storage with the rest of his mother’s belongings, and the furniture he hadn’t been able to bring to the Kaplans’. The delicate gold and silver glass balls were in there, so out of place beside the hand-made ornaments he’d churned out at school every year._

_Christmas wasn’t shiny green plastic garlands draped over everything that held still long enough._

_Christmas had been gold and silver and cream and red and cinnamon-scented._

_Once upon a time.-_

“Dollar store, mostly,” Billy admitted. He was close enough now to reach for Teddy’s hand. “You hate it,” Billy said. He was waiting for Teddy to say something, and... and Billy had done all of this for _Teddy_. He’d spent hours putting it together and spent money on the decorations and was that a tree in the corner? None of it had the sparkle of Billy’s magic to it, the familiar vein-deep thrum of power, which meant that he had done it all by hand.

And didn’t that make Teddy the world’s most ungrateful idiot not to be thrilled?                                    

Something dark and heavy twisted inside, even as Teddy pulled Billy close. “I love it,” Teddy lied. And then, because Billy needed words, he continued with truth. “I love _you_.” He pressed his lips into Billy’s hair, took a deep breath. Billy smelled like orange shampoo, and mint toothpaste, and not at all like cinnamon.

He let Billy pull him to the bed, the two singles they’d pushed together on that first day. And because he needed touch the way that Billy craved words, Teddy kissed him back.

\--

The lights were flashing to the rhythm of Jingle Bells. Teddy grabbed on to the headboard and stared up at the one-two-three-pause-one-two-three as Billy flicked the button of his jeans open with his thumb.

Billy’s mouth was wet and hot. Teddy’s eyes were wet and hot. And the one had very little to do with the other.

 

**3.**

Four years after they scattered Mrs. Altman’s ashes at the Avengers mansion, Billy and Teddy had an apartment of their own, a two-room box in a building crammed full of other students. It didn’t have air conditioning and the elevator only worked sporadically, but it was theirs.

\--

Teddy could do this. He _could_. Billy had gone out, would be out for at least another couple of hours. He had time and privacy to just get this over with.

 

_\- Mr. Kaplan hadn’t said much when Teddy had asked for the keys to the storage unit, just offered his help with the organizing and the lifting. But between Teddy’s strength and Billy’s magic – and a little help from Tommy – they’d had it covered. -_

 

Getting everything that he wanted back to the apartment had been easy.

Finding the courage to sort through the boxes wasn’t.

Keep it simple. One box, marked ‘Christmas Dec.’ in his mother’s loopy, flowing handwriting. Inside, everything familiar and warm, individually wrapped in white tissue paper. Gold and silver glass balls. A T made from layers of construction paper and popsicle sticks. A blown-glass icicle from their road trip to Maine. A foam ball covered in glue and sequins, half of them loose or missing.

The angel, ceramic face caught in a permanent blush, blonde curls spiralled just so. One of her gold plastic wings was broken, had been broken back when Teddy was six-

 

_\- Don’t worry, baby, don’t cry. Angels fly with magic, so there’s no harm done. There. See how pretty she is on the tree? –_

The little fake tree from last year fit in the corner by the couch, and he didn’t need to stand on a chair to put the angel on top.

He could do this. There was no-one here to see the tree yet, no-one here to see the furtive swipe of Teddy’s hand across his eyes.

The cookbook was in the next box. He carried it with him to the kitchen and set it on the counter. The pages were stained, some of them with spots semi-transparent from spilled oil, or marked with rings from the bottom of measuring cups, or coffee. And her handwriting, in the margins of every recipe he recognized, and a few that he didn’t.

 

_\- Works better with ¼ tsp cornstarch / what is confectioner’s sugar? / tried subbing TVP for the beef, T won’t eat it / makes too much for two – half next time -_

Scald the milk on the stove, sift the flour – how many times had he watched her do this? Every year, at Christmas, with a story about how she’d learned the recipe from her roommate in college.

That had been a lie. But her notes on the pages were there and solid and he could trace the impressions of her pen with his fingertips. The kitchen smelled of proofing yeast and when he closed his eyes he could hear her voice behind him, reading out the steps, singing along to the carols on the radio – the same ones that Billy loathed.

Billy meant well, he did. He wanted Teddy to be happy. But it wasn’t – he didn’t _feel_ it. Billy didn’t need this the way Teddy needed it.

Billy had Rosh Hashanah. He had apples and honey in the fall, the leaves turning and the smell of raisin challah baking and a new suit for Temple every year. And he had Passover, singing late into the night with cousins and cousins’ cousins around the table, four glasses of wine and the sting of horseradish to mark the spring. Billy lived in a rhythm that only made room for mint and pine and cinnamon in the winter because it had to, then filled the day with matinees and won tons instead. And while honey and horseradish and raisin bread were all good and warm and had started to take on the smell and feel of _home_ , they would never be fully _his._

But this could be his again. Cardamom and yeast and sugar and cinnamon, the smells of the spices mingling as he pressed the heels of his hands into the dough, over and over.

 

_\- Good, that’s lovely. Now we can do this as a braided loaf, or as buns. Which do you like best?-_

 

 _\- Set the oven to 200 when we get to this point,_ _and when the dough is ready it’ll have somewhere_ _nice and warm to rise.-_

 

\- _Don’t knead it too much, or the dough will get tough. You don’t know your own strength, sweetheart.-_

Teddy slammed his hands against the dough, pummelled and beat and _pressed_ and still it rebounded, stuck to his fingers, resisted. He punched into it, again, again, again, the flour puffing out around him in a cloud and settling on his hair, his shoulders, sticking to the wet tracks left by the tears rolling down his face.

The counter creaked ominously and he pulled back, his fist clenched and shaded green and-

And he blinked against the rising tide of red and black. He sank down, his back against the counter and he collapsed to the floor, pulled his knees to his chest. Teddy rested his forehead on his knees and let it go. He let the tears out, and the harsh, angry sobs. He shook and howled, bread dough gummy between his fingers and in his fists where he smashed them down against the linoleum floor.

Hands slipped into his after a minute, ten minutes, an hour? They were solid and strong and cold from outside. Teddy couldn’t stop shaking, even as Billy slid over him, around him, enfolding him in warm arms and stroking hands and an endless cascade of soft murmured things that washed over and soothed him.

His hands were fisted in Billy’s coat, the fabric wet in his fingers from tears, streaked with flour, rumpled where he’d clutched Billy to him and held on to his only lifeline.

“Sorry,” Teddy gasped out, fighting for breath and control and _center_. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Billy surged forward and kissed him, and when Teddy drew back he rolled off and to the side, never losing contact with Teddy as he went. He settled down and shucked his coat, sat shoulder to shoulder with Teddy, thigh to thigh.

Teddy laced his fingers through Billy’s.

Some time passed, how much, Teddy wasn’t sure.  He sat there until he didn’t need to anymore, head resting on Billy’s shoulder, tears trickling slowly down his face until he ran out of them.

The oven beeped. Teddy let out a shuddering breath, expelled the rest of the sad and the bad and lifted his head to look at Billy. Billy’s eyes were dark and wide, concerned and loving. He was going to say something, Teddy knew. Billy was going to _ask_ or _say_ and then Teddy would have to _explain_ and-

“Doughnuts,” Billy said. He held up a paper bag.

“Doughnuts?” Teddy repeated, feeling slow.

“Traditional for Hanukkah. I thought it would be easier to buy them than to try and make them.” He looked everywhere but at Teddy, taking in the flour, the bottles of spices, some tipped over on the counter, others rolled partway across the floor, the open jug of milk. “But making’s good. We can bake things too,” Billy added.

“Doughnuts first.” Teddy breathed again, his voice raw and harsh, his throat sore. He knew his eyes would be red; they were definitely swollen. But his center was easier to find now, there under the empty ache, Billy his anchor. He reached for the bag, and was rewarded with a relieved Billy-smile. “Then baking.”

“Deal.”

“Since when are doughnuts Hanukkah food?” Teddy asked a minute later, around a mouthful of powdered sugar and jelly.

“It’s an Israeli thing,” Billy shrugged. “But it’s all fried stuff in general. Miracle of the oil.”

Teddy contemplated that. “These doughnuts aren’t quite miracle-good,” he decided.

“Ingrate.”

There was another pause, and then, “Did you know that you can deep-fry whole turkeys?”

“No, Billy. Just - no.”

 

**4.**

Five years, five Christmases without her, and the box had been easier to open, this time. Not _easy,_ but easier.

\--

“You’re aware that it’s eight in the morning,” Tommy said, jogging backwards in front of Billy and Teddy. Billy shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, thumb rubbing against the seam on his gloves. There was every chance that this had been a bad idea, and Tommy tagging along had the potential to make a crashing failure that much worse. “On Christmas Day. If there was ever a sleep-in day in the world, this would be it.”

“And yet, here you are,” Teddy said, gesturing at the empty street all around them. He was cheerful at least, and he made the red fuzzy Santa hat on his head look charming instead of ridiculous.

“Only because I’m being driven insane with curiosity,” Tommy replied, slowing down deliberately to get one of his feet in front of Billy’s. Billy stepped over him, rolling his eyes. “When I crashed at your place last night, ‘being woken up at the ass-crack of dawn’ was not in the original plan.”

“You crashing at our place wasn’t in the original plan,” Billy reminded him. “But since you did, you’re getting drafted.” He nodded at the building that was coming up.

The sign above the door read ‘Evergreen Center,’ and the glass door opened onto a living space that looked like a suburban living room. Long couches made a square in the middle of the room, a television was playing Frosty the Snowman, and a Christmas tree sparkled in the far corner. A handful of teens were hanging out already, most of them underdressed for the cold weather.

Tommy looked around, confusion in his eyes mingling with wariness, but they were interrupted before he could ask questions. “Billy Kaplan!” And there was Mrs. Winsby from the office at school, bustling toward them with jeans on, and her greying hair back under a kerchief. “And these must be our other helpers. Come on back and I’ll introduce you around.”

 

_-‘And what have you got planned for Christmas?’ she’d asked Billy while he was waiting for a meeting, trapped._

_‘Nothing, really,’ he’d shrugged. ‘Hanging out with my boyfriend and my parents, I guess. We usually go see a movie. Go out for dinner.’_

_Her eyes had lit up at that and he’d gotten a bit worried, and then ‘-well, in that case! My church-‘_

Oh no, not you _… he’d liked the departmental secretary, liked her a lot, but-_

_‘My church has a project; every year, a number of us go downtown and cook Christmas dinner at a drop-in center, you know, for the kids who don’t have anywhere else to go. And Pastor Rick has the flu, which leaves us short-handed. Do you think you and that nice young man of yours could find some time to pitch in?’_

_And that… that hadn’t sounded so bad, actually.-_

The center’s kitchen wasn’t exactly big, and the two old ovens clicked and threw off an alarming amount of heat. But there was a massive posterboard on the wall with tasks all timed out to the minute (and some of them already assigned by name), a couple of kids already peeling potatoes, and an older man that Mrs. Winsby introduced as Peter, who ran the operation like a military strike. He pushed knives and spoons and cutting boards into their hands and set them to it.

\--

Hours later, Billy was still chopping carrots, Tommy had his hands deep inside the stuffed guts of one of the three roasted turkeys, and Teddy was mashing potatoes in a vat larger than one of Peter’s kids, with a smile on his face.

Teddy didn’t smile much at Christmas. This was new.

The kitchen was steam-filled and sultry-hot from the old ovens and the simmering pots of stock, the air heavy with grease. The cooking smells seeped into Billy’s skin, turkey and ham and just-baked bread, thick and rich and too much.

Someone had turned on the radio. Christmas carols, naturally. Billy started to cringe out of pure reflex, but-

 

_\- but Teddy was singing along, half under his breath._

_And Mrs. Winsby was pretending to rap Tommy’s knuckles with a big wooden spoon while he stole slices of ham from her tray, slowly enough that she could see him do it._

_And Peter’s kids had been sent out to sort clothing donations for the care packages, and..._

 _this wasn’t saving the world, but it was something_ real. _-_

Billy set aside the knife, dumped the last of the carrot sticks onto the heavily-loaded veggie tray and wiped the mix of steam and sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

Slipping out the back door, the crisp and cold air bit through the sleeves of his shirt. It seared away the smell of grease that was clinging to his nose and skin. It was barely past noon and he was already wiped out from the heat and the simple, repetitive work. It wasn’t the total exhaustion that followed a battle, or the soul-deep fatigue that hit after he’d used his powers too much, too fast. It was a good-tired, the kind that soaked down into the muscles but that a hot shower would mostly rinse away.

Billy breathed out and watched the white puff of air first dissipate and then vanish into the winter day.  Arms slipped around his waist, strong and familiar. Billy turned his head just enough to graze his lips along Teddy’s jaw, and breathe him in.

He smelled like gravy, which was both oddly off-putting and enticing at the same time.

“I never want to look at a carrot again,” Billy said, opening his eyes. Teddy was still wearing the Santa hat, the ball on the end dangling over one eye.

“Deal.” Teddy tightened the hug a little. “I always thought they were vaguely suspicious.”

Billy snorted a half-laugh.

“Thank you,” Teddy said after a moment.

Billy frowned. “For what?”

“For this.” Teddy paused, took in a breath that Billy could feel against his back. Teddy was warm, heat seeping through their clothes, and the cold bit deeper into Billy’s front by contrast. “I still miss her,” he said quietly, his breath warm against Billy’s ear. Billy held still, didn’t dare move, in case he broke this, ended the moment. “I miss her so much, Bee.” Teddy’s voice cracked and he drew in a shuddering breath. Billy laid his hand on top of Teddy’s where it sat on Billy’s chest, and held on tight. “But this is good. Not just keeping busy, but. You and me and even Tommy, and...” he trailed off.

Billy turned in his arms, tipped his chin up to brush his lips against Teddy’s, just there.  _I know. I get you. I love you._

“When we’re done here, I’m taking you out,” Teddy promised. “Movie of your choice. Then Chinese.”

“Chinese food on Christmas?” Billy risked the tease, nudging Teddy’s chin with his nose. “You heathen.”

Teddy cracked a smile, met his lips again, pressed in against his body, and-

“Now, boys,” a voice from behind them made Billy jump, and Teddy turn, and Mrs. Winsby was waving a spoon at them from the doorway, with a twinkle of amusement in her eye. “We’re about ready to serve, so come on back inside before you catch your deaths.”

Teddy leaned down and bumped his forehead against Billy’s, gently. “Ready?”

Billy nodded. “After you.”

Mrs. Winsby was lurking in the hallway waiting for them, grabbed them for a team photograph-

\- ‘for the bulletin, you see. We’ve had quite the attractive crew today,’ Mrs. Winsby had squeezed Teddy’s forearm, he’d rolled his eyes. ‘Maybe we’ll get more of the young ladies volunteering next year.’-

-and she’d slapped the elf hat on Billy’s head just before the shutter went off.

The picture was awful, Billy’s face caught somewhere between picture-smile and surprised-horrified, Tommy laughing and high-fiving Mrs. Winsby.

Billy asked for the evidence to be burned.

Tommy thought it was awesome, and tagged it on Facebook for everyone they knew.

Somewhere in there, Billy decided that December wasn’t that bad after all.

But he did kind of hate Tommy.

**5.**

Fifteen years in, and time had dulled the edges of Teddy’s grief. The new reason for the ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ ornament brought a lot of old junk back to the surface, but they could deal with that. They did deal with it. And things were good.

\--

“Papa!” Teddy turned and scanned the crowd looking for him, then waved with one hand as Billy elbowed his way toward them. Sarah wiggled on Teddy’s shoulders, reached out with both hands and launched herself into Billy’s arms when he finally reached them. “Papapapapapapapapa!”

“Sorry I’m late,” Billy said, leaning in for a kiss and settling their two-year-old on his hip. “Tommy called just as I was leaving. He wants to know if we’re – and I quote – ‘going to leave the little spud with Bubbe and Zaide on Christmas Day this year and come make ourselves useful at the Evergreen again.’”

“Wanna grapes,” Sarah announced, and started patting down Billy’s coat pockets.

“My folks wouldn’t mind taking her.” Billy shrugged with his free side, “but it’s up to you. How do you feel about not doing the whole Christmas-morning-with-the-kid thing?” He was watching Teddy carefully as he asked, a line creasing the middle of his forehead.

Teddy didn’t answer right away, let himself sit with the question while Billy raided the backpack for snacks.

 

_\- Sarah had been just a baby last year, barely one, nowhere near old enough to appreciate or remember anything about the holiday. He and Billy had been so sleep-deprived from the three-times-a-night teething wakeups (and an extremely poorly-timed HYDRA attack) that they'd basically said 'fuck it.' They'd spent Christmas on the couch, eating frozen pizza and watching cartoons.-_

The crowd was cheek-by-jowl now, the sidewalk packed with camping chairs and strollers and kids sitting on blankets. Teddy glanced down the street for any sign that the parade had started, and thought he could pick up the sounds of cheering in the distance.

“I don’t mind,” he answered truthfully after a minute. “We’ll still have the early morning, and she’s usually up by six anyway. We’ll be done by three, if it’s the same as every other year, so we’ll have the rest of the day for family. Besides,” he shrugged, stole a grape from the Tupperware box and made a silly face at Sarah when she shrieked at him for it, “we haven’t done the traditional Norman Rockwell Christmas thing successfully, ever.”

Billy winced and looked away. Teddy slid his hand along Billy’s jaw, rested his thumb there on Billy’s chin, the scruff of his beard short enough to prickle. “It’s not a bad thing, Bill. It’s not like we’re a traditional family by anyone’s definition.” Billy’s mouth crooked up in a smile and Teddy dragged his hand back, slid his fingers into the dark hair at Billy’s nape. “Okay?”

Billy relaxed, glanced up at the road as the first float came into view. “Okay.” Sarah bounced on his hip as the crowd around them pressed forward, and he lifted her higher so she could see. “Though if we’re entirely non-traditional, how did I let myself get dragged out to stand in near-freezing temperatures to watch _Santa_ go by, of all things?”

“Because you love your family and you want us to be happy,” Teddy replied with a flush of triumph and a broad smile. He intercepted Sarah as she tried to stick her last grape up Billy’s nose. Teddy settled her back on top of his shoulders with an easy lift, felt her little woollen mittens curl around his hair.

Billy’s arm slipped around Teddy’s waist and he leaned his weight against Teddy for a moment, the long press of his body warm and grounding. “Sounds about right,” Billy replied with a laugh both affectionate and jokingly resigned.

\--

“Cat inna hat cat inna hat cat inna hat cat inna hat!”

“So. Cat in the Hat, then.”

“Apparently.”

“How is that even a Christmas thing?”

“It’s a kid thing. Close enough.”

\--

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I was only gone for five minutes!”

“Is that my coffee?”

“And cinnamon buns. Not until you explain the flashing clown noses.”

“They’re reindeer noses. I bought one for you, too.”

“Nu-unh. Not a chance.”

“Wait, wait. You’d go to the ends of the known – and unknown – universe for me.”

“Done that.”

“Take on an army for me.”

“Done that.”

“Risk starting another inter-stellar _war_ over me.”

“Can we not talk about that?”

“But you won’t wear a Rudolph nose.”

“There are limits to even my devotion, Altman.”

“Grinch.”

\--

“Grinchgrinchgrinchgrinchgrinchgrinchgrinchgrinchgrinchgrinch.”

“How long do you think she can keep that up for?” Billy stared at their daughter and fought back an exasperated smile.

“Until she finally falls asleep, I’d guess.” Teddy tightened his grip on Sarah’s knees as they pushed their way back through the dispersing crowd. The stairs to the subway station were blocked by bodies, half the city with the same idea as they had. The flashing noses had ended up in Teddy’s coat pocket long before Santa’s float had shown up, and Sarah’s bobble hat was stuffed into Billy’s jacket.

“Ginch,” Sarah replied sleepily from her perch on Teddy’s shoulders, then stopped. Billy looked up again and his whole face changed, the faint aura of worry that always seemed to hang over him replaced by warm affection. He was so beautiful like this, his warm brown eyes soft, and filled with wonder and love. It was a look that Teddy had seen a lot more often when they were kids, and everything had been new and amazing and filled with promise.

 “She’s conking out,” Billy murmured quietly.

“She missed her nap for this.”

The crowd wasn’t thinning nearly quickly enough; it would be half an hour at least before they got down to the train and then home-

Billy took Teddy’s elbow and tugged him toward an alley.

“Bill?”

“If we get out of the way, I’ll teleport us home. We can have her in bed in five minutes.” And power began to flicker blue at Billy’s fingertips.

“If you’re sure-“ Teddy hesitated, but Sarah was sagging, her face pressed against the top of his head, and Billy’s cheeks and nose were flushed pink with cold.

“There have to be some benefits to being married to the Sorcerer Supreme.” Billy pulled them deep into the alley, the dark space between the buildings sheltered and private. Teddy bundled Sarah close into his arms.

She curled in with a huff and a sigh, blonde curls tumbling over her forehead. She turned her cheek against Teddy’s coat, lower lip jutting out in a soft pink pout. He wrapped his arms snugly around her warm, solid weight. Teddy looked up at his partner, his best friend, his _husband_ – Billy, with his brown eyes and strong hands, and the sweet, familiar lines of his mouth. Teddy leaned in to press a kiss against Billy’s lips, right there, slightly parted and inviting.

He tasted of coffee, and of cinnamon.

“Come on,” Billy said, and took Teddy’s hand. “I’ll take us home.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a standard translation of "Mi Yimalel," a Hanukkah song that is not related to "I have a little dreydle" in any way, shape or form.


End file.
